


Bloody Sharpe

by HeatherGiesbrecht



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Aristocracy, Background Relationships, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Brother/Sister Incest, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Mild Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherGiesbrecht/pseuds/HeatherGiesbrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any Sharpe was a bloody Sharpe...it just mattered in what ways one counted the blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Sharpe

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the stuff is made up, but I've tried making the years match with the ones in the novelization. They could still be a bit wonky, so please forgive me and enjoy.

Any Sharpe was a bloody Sharpe...it just mattered in what ways one counted the blood.

In the time of Roman invasion, the Sharpe clan followed the legions. Restlessly and wildly, they glutted themselves on the blood of the wounded poured into crushed, chain-bound skulls. When the Romans found the mine of crimson clay...they waited, they watched and, again, they fed. Eventually, the dwindling clan built a town which they called Harding Poole near the site of their ancestral conquest. When they tired of plebeian life in 1796, they charmed their way into the mortal King of England's court and the title of Baronet. 

One-hundred and some years later, in 1848 was born Michael Sharpe, Esq. Michael's father, Sir Reginald was loving as only a vampire could be teaching his son every last one of his magics and charms. How to hunt both as a vampire and as a human, how to be courtly, and, more importantly, how to run the clay mine. Everything that a modern vampire needed to know. Unfortunately, Sir Reginald's time was near wasted as his son cared hardly for the lessons and in 1865 like the brute he was murdered his father. In the same year, Sir Michael Sharpe, that waster of fortune, that drunken whore, charmed a rich, sickly, old hag named Beatrice into marrying him. When a mortal said of him, "Bloody Sharpe !" it wasn't an insult. 

Lucille Sharpe was born in 1866 and how Sir Michael hated her. Oh how he wished that his first-born had been a boy as it should have. When she complained he hit her and locked her in the nursery to shut her up. When Beatrice complained of that he smacked her too and upped her dose of laudanum. Finally, in 1868, Sir Michael's boy was born one young Thomas Sharpe. How Sir Michael loved the boy, in his eyes, Thomas could do no wrong. Therefore, he believed wholeheartedly that Lucille had scratched his favoured hunting knife with her fangs, that she had broken the ancient statue of Maximilian Sharpe etc. He whipped her, beat her and smacked her fearing that if he did not she would corrupt Thomas. He never showed Thomas the tricks that his father had shown him, he was distant and stand-offish or angry always.

Meanwhile, Lady Beatrice hated both of her children, wishing them dead as she wished Michael dead. She locked her children in the attic, confined to that or the nursery alone. To amuse herself, she ordered the in flagrante delicto books. After all, Michael satisfied himself with whores from the whole of Northern England and drank near the whole thing dry too.

The year that Thomas discovered sex was 1876, when Father whipped Lucille for looking at the strange books. Lucille said that she wanted to feel better, that she wanted him to love her. Of course, he wanted her to feel better, she was the only one who loved him. So, he did what she said and copied the strange pictures, it felt odd but...good, he supposed. It kept them happy, their minds off the threat of beatings or being yelling at, of being ignored etc.

In 1878, Lucille had enough of her father's abusing herself and Thomas. Oh Thomas, pretty Thomas. She had Thomas partly cut into Father's saddle strap, while she gave Father laudanum and the poison of firethorn berries. Firethorn berries were poisonous to both humans and vampires, why exactly she knew not, but later on she would theorize that it was some curse of the old Gods. Weakened as he was when Father fired his hunting rifle the strap broke and he smashed his head - she smashed it again before the humans could see, just to make sure that he was dead. The blood gushing from Father's wounds, oh what a sight it made sparkling in the sun, how good it smelled. That night she made a tiny cut in Thomas's arm and lapped at it before it vanished. It was hot, rich, lovelier than any of the food she'd eaten in her life. Queer things too it made her feel and she bit his lips for more, always she wanted more and he gave it. When his lips got sore she took it from the parts that felt good.

Mother discovered them in 1880. Thomas looked up from Lucille licking his bloody thigh to see Mother standing in the nursery's doorway. Oh how Mother had screamed at them, called them monsters. He saw an odd cold look enter his sister's eyes then, one he would see many times in later years, the utterly focused gaze of a predator, the promise of death. Even years later, he still remembered Mother's screams as Lucille split her skull with a butcher knife.

Thomas coughed as he woke and reached up to rub at his newly healed cheek. What year was it again ? Oh, yes, it was 1901. He got up lamenting the ruin of one of his good shirts. Rather lucky that he was a vampire really or that would've been fatal. Well, unless, it nearly had and he'd saved himself. Of course, he'd only discovered his vampirism at boarding school when he'd gotten punched in the face and his fangs had cut the other boy's knuckles. Since then apart from human food, he had also taken to, at least, a few small mouthfuls of blood a night. He had never told Lucille because he feared she would want him to kill the people he fed from. Now, however, he did not think that would suffice - not with the wounds Lucille had given him.

After he got to his feet, he ran outside to look for his sister. Lucille was laid out in the snow beside his clay scooping machine. "Lucille, Lucille ?" He crouched, focusing on trying to hear her heartbeat. Relieved when he did, he shook her, again calling her name.

Gorgeous brown-green eyes fluttered and she moaned, "Thomas ? Oh Thomas, I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to !"

"Yes, I can hear that. Now, can we get up ? Because I'm bloody starving."

It was minutes before she stopped kissing and caressing him then she grinned wickedly. "Shall we let Harding Poole see the dead walk ?"

"That sounds entertaining if nothing else, we may as well feed while we're at it." The road that took a human four hours to walk took them only minutes at a sprint.

Harding Poole's newly cleared cobblestone streets disappeared as yet another storm started blowing in. A woman's yelp, "Och, come back 'ere, ya thief !" The scent of fresh blood and the sound of snow-dampened footsteps filled the air. He and Lucille glided across the snow after the ratty frock-coated thief, Lucille reached him first latching onto him in a second. Gently, he plucked the brown-leather coin purse from the slackening grip then followed the man's quickly fading footsteps back to the woman.

Said woman looked rather like Edith except with brown-hair, mostly it was something about her eyes. The woman was clad in a dark-grey cloak, blouse and skirt. A trickle of blood flowed down the tanned cheek over her neck. Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment as he approached, "Pardon mi asking, bit ya wou'dn't be Sir Thomas would'ya ?"

Gentle, charming smile as he held out the purse, "Actually, yes, I would be."

That blood drop sliding when she tilted her head trying to scrutinize his attire as she accepted the bag. "Blimey, but ya must be cold in jus' that there blouse 'n waist-coat, ain't choo, Sir Thomas ?"

"Ah, it's nothing, really, darling."

Tentatively, she put a hand on his forearm, "Ya won' be shure would'ya ? S'a be tha' least I cou'd do fer ya."

Softer than a mortal could hear Lucille hissed, "If you are so bloody hungry why are you playing with your food, Thomas ?"

He reached out to cup her neck, sliding his thumb through the blood. "I'm not really feeling that kind of peckish tonight I'm afraid. You'll just forget about me anyways."

Unlike with Edith the hypnotism worked, "O' course I 'ill." All she would remember would be the faintest impression, a dream, nothing more.

His fangs sharpened and he sank them into her jugular so the blood flowed of its own violation down his throat. Goddamn but it was good the hot, heady and glorious copper tang he had missed these last weeks. A faint moan left his lips then a growl as Lucille approached - she was his food, his, damn it ! Still her presence reminded him to stop and he pulled away. The blood spattered on his face and clothes as they ran away to Gods only knew where. For years afterward, the villagers would tell tales of the ghost called, "Bloody Sharpe." who looked for help and never found any. Whenever they heard the tale all Thomas and Lucille would do was laugh or smile enigmatically, never answering questions, to disappear just as silently during the night.


End file.
